Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
by silverjazz
Summary: Ryan has had to deal with his OCD all this life. That's just the way it is.


This is just a little story about Ryan and his OCD. I really wanted to explore Ryan's character because so many people mention things about his character, but no one ever really addresses or goes in depth about it. It being his OCD. Like Ryan, I have OCD and I remember little things that I did. My mom always tried to push it out of me, like a habit, but it's not something you can really fix. It's always a constant need to clean dishes, or that if they aren't perfect, that he'll go over them again. It's not like that. I mean, yes, I have to rewash it if there is a single spot (believe me, if I could ignore it, I would), but it's just so much more than that and so different than the general view.

Also, if you know anything about OCD, its two separate catagories. You can be completely obsessive (which is more violent and paraniod) but not totally compulsive (more of routines and habits). I'm compulsive with very few symptoms of obsession. From what I seem on the show, Ryan seems to follow the same patterns that I do. I only mention this because I talk about the compulsive tendencies and you may not understand what I am talking about if i don't say OCD.

There is a bit of some friendship at the end, just because I love the dynamics between Eric and Ryan.

Summary: Ryan has had to deal with his OCD all his life. That's just the way it is.

Disclaimer: How cool would it be if someone actually was like, yeah, I own it _and _I'm writing fanfiction about it. Because we all know that's going to happen…

* * *

**Obsessive Compulsive Disorder**

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It is a disorder that causes obsessive thoughts and/or compulsive actions resulting from a shortage of a chemical inside the frontal lobe of the brain, according to the dictionary. To me, it is how I live. So many people say they have it and so many people belittle this disease because you can live normally with it, but it is not that simple.

My OCD has shaped who I am. I don't believe I would be a CSI if I wasn't plagued with this chemical imbalance. I don't really know how to explain what I mean…it is a cursed blessing. I think it is best understood through stories.

* * *

When I was little, maybe three, my mom taught me how to hold a crayon. I watched her over and over again until I could do it. I would study the way she held it when she wrote, or at least, that's what she told me. When she finally let me color, she was pleased to find I only drew on paper…that was on a hard surface…with certain colors and no broken or unsharpened crayons…and always within the lines. If it wasn't perfect, she found it in the trash, along with several handfuls of broken and dull crayons.

* * *

When I was five, my family moved to New England. Before we moved, my mom decided to make a farewell video so that I could remember the first home I lived in. So, as a new morning tradition, my mom helped me pick out my clothes (I didn't usually match without her help) and I got dressed by myself. I pulled my socks up as high as they could go. Every time they would start to fall, I pulled them up. I couldn't stand the thought of my socks with wrinkles. My mom would brush my hair and part it to the side, just like I liked it. If it was on the wrong side, I would brush it to the right side until I was satisfied. It was the same every day.

Then I would eat a bowl of Berry Berry Cereal with skim milk. If it was whole, I wouldn't drink it. That film that the whole milk leaves on the side of my green kiddy-cup (the only cup I would use in the morning)…ick…it makes me shudder every time. So, after breakfast, I would brush my teeth and put on my shoes. Then the day began.

Since we were filming the house, I decided to start a tour in the family room. I showed the camera my rocking chair where I sit and watch all my cartoons, the toy chest where all the toys are placed in, the box for my coloring books, and the smaller tub full of crayons and markers.

At the end of the sequence, I introduced the camera to my room. I showed it my bed, which I fixed because some pillows were out of place, my mini director's chair, which was always the center of the room, and my mini electric keyboard. I played 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' for my mom and the camera and decided to sit in my chair.

The chair was not in line with my bed as it usually was. I kept moving it until it was perfect. I tried to sit in it, but I accidentally knocked it over, so I had to start the process all over again. Once I got it perfect, I sat down, waved at the camera, and said goodbye.

My mom said I did excellent.

* * *

When I started school, I hated outdoor recess. All the kids would play in the dirt and on the jungle gym. I liked the swings. I could sail high in the air and look out across the blacktop at everyone playing with their friends. If I could, I tried to stay inside. I would insist on helping the teacher instead of playing outside. Outside were bugs and dirt and heat. It was a mess.

I never liked finger painting. I preferred chalk drawings. There were only four colors you could use and the chalk dust washed off your hands. Paint never seemed to go away. If you mixed colors together, you got something completely different. It was frustrating. I would try to paint my house, but the colors bled together. It always looked like a big brown blob. My mom told me I had talent. I rolled my eyes when she said that.

* * *

In elementary school, my friends made fun of me. I always had to carry my books according to size and item. Binders were on the bottom, then folders, textbooks (if they were big), notebooks, my planner, and lastly, the literary books for English class. If there were duplicates in the same category, the bigger one was on bottom. If they were the same size, then it went by rainbow color order.

My locker was the same way. I had shelves for notebooks and books, and a pre-existing shelf for textbooks. I had a picture of my family at eyelevel on the inside of the locker door and my coat was always hung on the left hook. If I had a bookbag, it was hung on the right hook. I always put the bag in first, then the coat, because I could adjust the coat easier in order to make it all fit nicely.

I would always wonder how my locker eighbors could stand having papers falling out of their lockers every time they opened them. It's a wonder they even graduated…I always found their homework and notes scattered on the floor. Usually I would fold the papers up and shove them into the little slots in the locker, but only if I had enough time so that I wasn't late to class. I liked to have enough time to sit down, put my books under my seat, get out a pen and a notebook. I hated using pencil. It would always smudge.

* * *

In high school, my favorite part of the school year was always the first week. Everything was new and clean. I would get my text books and put book covers on them. I color coded my subjects according to their placement in my schedule. Red was first period, orange was second, yellow was third, green was fifth, blue was sixth, purple was seventh, and black was my common usage items, such as my calendar and daily planner. I loved starting a new week with a clean page, unmarked by ink. I always had an extra pen in my notebook, and it was always a duplicate of the one I was using. I didn't want two different inks to clash if I happened to run out of ink or misplace my pen.

* * *

When I applied to college, I followed a process. First, I filled out all of the information on the applications. Then, I went to my teachers for recommendations. I asked to edit their compositions before they sent them. I understand that they are teachers, but no one is perfect and I needed to see for myself if the recommendations were grammatically correct. I could never stand a grammatically incorrect statement or misspelled word.

Then came time for the essays. I read each option and made an outline for each. I picked my strongest topics and wrote. At first, I just wrote what I felt. Then, I went back and read it out loud and fixed all the visible mistakes. I read it several times before another pair of eyes were allowed to look at the short essays. After each person read it, I would go back and edit it again, with their comments and another rereading of my own. I went through several people before I was satisfied. This was how I did all my major papers, from English class essays to applications.

* * *

In college, I didn't have very many friends. Most of them were teachers or the librarians that I saw more often than my roommate. I was constantly studying and checking over my work. I absorbed every bit of information I could and then researched it more. I stayed after to relearn the materials and debate concepts with teachers. I was never satisfied.

My notes were always very messy after lectures. Sometimes, even I had trouble understanding what I was getting at. With the help of a tape recorder, I sat down for a couple hours each night and recopied everything into a master binder. I still have all of my notes from college in eight very large binders. Sometimes during a case, when I'm stuck, I go back to my notes and see if there is anything there to help me. Even if there isn't, reading my notes always calms me. The precision and terminology relieves my mind and I can think more clearly after.

* * *

Once, Delko caught me reading one of my binders. It was really embarrassing. I thought he would make fun of me. It would be the perfect opportunity for him.

He didn't. He said he wouldn't make fun of me for something I can't help, however nerdier it made me. I must have looked shocked because he seemed offended that I just assumed something so vile about his character.

Of course I apologized, but it didn't feel good enough. I shared my binder with him. I told him a little bit about the hours of work that went into it and why I did it. I saw a glint in his eyes as he scanned the pages of my neatly written notes.

After that day, Delko understood me a little bit better. He respected me for what I did and I respected him for who he was.

At crime scenes, I would usually double check everything. Before it had been an insult to his work, but now Eric knew why I was so meticulous. He had fewer reasons to hate me so we became friends.

* * *

OCD isn't having a constant need to clean dishes. It's a way you think and act. It's the little habits and the not so little ones that start to bug people, but you just can't do without. It doesn't follow a logical pattern, but it makes sense. At least, it does to me. Eric accepts that. He doesn't mind that I make sure everything is in place or alphabetized. I think he actually appreciates it because he can find stuff easier.

I'm not perfect. Far from it. But I try to make up for my shortcomings. And Eric, everyone at the lab, accepts me for who I am, whether I can overcome my compulsive tendencies or not.

* * *

**Fin. **So, how'd you like my first CSI: Miami story about my favorite character? I hope it wasn't too much use of creative license. Either way, I enjoyed writing it. It made me relive the days of my childhood...well, the first half of it at least... :)

Thanks for reading!


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